Nothing more than Friends
by cookie-moi
Summary: Spoilers for 2.02 - Elsie goes to see Charles after that day to make sure that he is well again. And well... maybe they are only friends. But what if they're not?


**Title: Nothing more than Friends**

_Rating: T_  
><em>Spoiler: For anyone who hasn't seen 2.02 yet. Be warned and don't read further if you haven't seen it yet.<em>  
><em>Disclaimer: I'd like to call it mine but it belongs to Julian Fellowes.<em>  
><em>Others: First: If you find grave mistakes please tell me about them.<em>  
><em>Second: I never seem to be able to stick to the point.<em>  
><em>And then: Although it's my birthday today, you all still get a present from me. And this it it. There's also some more over at the LJ comm 'Lovebelowstairs'. ;)<em>  
><em>I stop babbling now and well... Enjoy.<em>

~o~

They are nothing more than friends. They never have been lovers, never declared feelings they simply didn't have. Friendship is the only thing between them. A fondness for the other's presence and character. And the occasional quick tumble in either his pantry or her parlor. No promises, no feelings involved. Simply a release of tension between them. There's nothing more to it. Love is something they can't allow themselves, something they won't allow themselves. They have enough to do already without dealing of the responsibility of another person's happiness added to it.

So it simply stays always a quick thing. Never bothering much with speaking or whispering. There are no feelings that need to be communicated while they are closer than they should be. They don't usual kiss. There's no reason for it. They are just friends and friends don't kiss. The few times they do kiss he always apologises for it afterwards, feeling he has overstepped a line between them. Ironic thinking what they had been doing while he took the liberty to kiss her.

They're only friends and it means she shouldn't worry about him so much, but she does. She had warned him about overworking himself and giving himself a heartattack. That evening he had lifted her up against a wall and made her forget her own name, showing her that he wasn't in danger of having his heart give up on him. That had been then. Today he had an attack in the dining room, with half the family fussing over him and the maids in turmoil. She still couldn't remember how she had gotten up the stairs. One moment she was sitting in her parlor sorting through the linens the next she was standing in the dining room, pulling herself together and trying to keep breathing while Charles fought for breath. Somehow she had managed to order Anna and the others to continue with the dinner and then to go and show Mr Crawley and Lady Sybil to his room.

She had waited for Doctor Clarkson paitently outside his room while Lady Sybil fussed over him, soon joined by Mrs Crawley and in the end by the doctor himself. She had paced in front of the door, more nervous like a friend should be, only to stop when the women left his room. Mrs Crawley had assured her that it wasn't a heart attack and all she had done was to think back to that moment in his pantry up against the wall. Of all the things she could think about and her mind chose that memory. Thinking about how she could ease his workload would have been more important, just like thinking about how he was feeling and how soon he would recover. How she could keep it from happening again and here instead she thought about him being all over her.

The doctor told her that he needed rest, the more the better. No work and no worry for him. It hadn't been a heart attack he repeated Mrs Crawley's earlier words. '_Not this time._', was all she could think.

Afterwards everything went fuzzy again. She had been downstairs. Keeping an eye on the two maids in the dining room, calming Daisy and maybe even drinking a cup of tea Mrs Patmore pressed into her hands. She remembered going up with the medicine Doctor Clarkson had given her and finding Lady Mary in his room. They hadn't talked much. Charles because he got tired the moment he had taken the drops and her because she knew she couldn't hold in her scolding and the tears the moment she decided to speak. She was only his friend. She wasn't supposed to cry with fear for his life when he lay blinking at her before she left the room.

And here she sits in her own room, unable to sleep with the anxiety of the day still thrumming through her veins. With a feeling like she has barely escaped the thunder in a storm, to only get caught in the wind. He is still alive, the house has not faltered in these last few hours. Dinner has gone well with Anna taking the lead, Daisy helping where she could and Mr Branson calming the other maids once he had returned with the doctor. He is still breathing. A shaky breath catches in her throat and formes into a sob. And before she knows it she is crying. Pressing her hands against her face she tries to muffle her cries and feels the fear still taking over her body. The tension releases itself through too many tears for only a friend, for someone who means nothing more than a quick tumble in her parlor. Or up against that blasted wall.

They are only friends. Nothing more. And still she finds herself traipsing down the corridor, sneaking through the always looked door, manifestation of rule and order to save the virtues under her wings, and to his room. Only to make sure that he's asleep and well resting she tells herself with dried tears on her cheeks. Because that's what friends do. Slipping through his door she manages to make out his sleeping form in the pale moonlight. Breathing deep she keeps herself from crying. Charles deep breaths tell her that he's still alive and will live to be scolded by her another day. Not tomorrow but another day for not listening to her. She stands in his room. Rooted to the ground, unable to move neither fore- nor backwards. Too happy for the sound of his breathing and to afraid it will be gone in the morning. She can't lose him. And suddenly she finds herself crying again. Why is it that he seems to reduce her to a weak crying bundle of anxious woman when he's only sleeping and breathing?

Stepping closer to the bed trying to cry as quietly as possible she reaches out to take a stray strand of hair from his face and pull his blanket and her quilt she brought over, when the doctor had left, further up to his chin. And gasps when a hand closes around her wrist to stop her. Charles is awake. And seems to have been awake since she opened the door to slip into his room in the middle of the night without a light or her shawl. She had gone to his room in only her nightgown, desperate to see him.

His face is barely visible in the pale moonlight and standing with her back to the window she must be a dark shadow to him. Her quite sobs rattle her body and her wrist burns where he softly holds it. One of her tears rolls down her cheeks and falls on his fingers. Betraying her distress to Charles. She shouldn't bother him in the night. They are only friends.

He softly pulls at her wrist, pulls her towards her bed until she has to climb onto it with her knees. And then he pulls her down beside him. Moves to the edge on one side to pull her down and against him on the bed. And she lets him. She's unwilling to fight it. Unwilling to fight her friend's wish to have her lying beside him. But more important: She needs to lay beside him, to rest her head near his. She can feel his warmth even through the covers and a burning where his hand leaves her wrist when she has finally settled comfortably against him and then moves on to her waist. In the darkness she trails his arm with her hand. Lets her fingers glide over the material of his pyjama and up his arm to his shoulder. It changes to the warmth of his neck and his face when she trails higher. His cheeks are dry, so much different from hers where still occasional tears spill over and wet her skin. His other hand softly touches her face and tries to rub the tears away. But they still keep coming and in the end he simply cups her cheek and strokes it with his thumb. Soothing her anxiousness by touching her and be touched. Her hand trails to touch his forehead and he leans down to press a kiss against hers. She touches his hair, his soft greying hair, and hears a soft sigh escape his lips. Those lips that have kissed her before. Which she had liked and welcomed. Those lips that have never told her that she's beautiful or loved but instead have referred to her by her last name and occasionally have been pressed to hers, to leave her yearning for more when he abruptly ended those passionate kisses. Reminding her that they were only friends and kissing was nothing friends do. Those lips that have always apologised for kissing her afterwards. And which she always longed to feel on her lips and skin again.

Her fingers touch his soft lips. He is smiling in the dark, not minding her need to touch him, to make sure that he is still alive. Warm breath grazes her fingertips and she feels his lips press against them before he softly murmures her name and pulls her closer with the hand at her waist. The quiet "Elsie..." his deep voice rumbles in the dark, is filled with warmth and makes her fingers tremble. He called her by her christian name. They were just friends. Only friends.

She trails her fingers away from his mouth or otherwise the urge to kiss them would take over her being and not let go until she does it. They don't kiss. It's simply not what they do. She feels the stubble on his chin beneath her fingertips and a soft chuckle escapes her lips. Of course there would be stubble. How did she get the thought that there wouldn't? Even Charles had to rise early and shave, like every other man. Her fingers find the neck of his pyjama at the hollow of his throat. The first button of his shirt feels hard under her fingers when she opens it and lets her fingers slip beneath it. His breath grazes her ear when he lays his head back onto his cushion. His skin feels hot to her touch, burning her fingertips with the liberty she is taking. Even though they have touched more unrestrained before. More intimate and hasty and yet those touches were nothing compared to the slow careful exploration she was doing now, more personal, more caring. A touch as sensual and tender as if they were lovers.

They were just friends. A fact that hurt her more than any fall, any cut had done in her life. They were empty and cold words, cutting deeply into her without ever blemishing her skin. Only leaving more scars on her soul. Scars collected over time, over years of friendship, of sharing their thoughts, of sharing their bodies. Scars that were broken open again and again, whenever another one was added. Whenever he touched and kissed her.

The skin on his chest feels rougher than the skin near his eyes or in the corner of his lips. Coarse hair is tickling her hand when she strokes her hand over it. Slowly stroking her fingers down his chest and through it until she feels the warmth of his chest change into the warm but rough material of his pyjama shirt. Her fingers find another hard button in the dark and with trembling fingers she opens that one, too. Lets it glide out of his fastening before she carefully pulls his shirt further apart.

His chest moves slowly beneath her hand, rises and falls with every deep breath he takes. The sound of his breathing the only noise in the silence of his room beside her own shaky breaths and the thumping of her heart in her ears. But his calmness does nothing to sooth her anxious mind. Doesn't stop the soft tremble in her hands. If anything it only strengthens the thought that her mind still needs to accept and makes her heart sing. Every single one of his deep breaths tells her that he's still alive.

His hand on her waist pulls her closer to him when she lets her fingers glide down further over his chest, through more hair, over more warm skin. His other hand strokes over her shoulder for a moment before she feels it glide down her back and up again. Coming to rest on her shoulder blade. Its warmth seeping through her nightgown and spreading over her skin. A soft kiss is pressed into her hair and she hears him murmur her name against her skin before he gently presses another one against her forehead.

She tries to open another button of his shirt but her fingers tremble too much to get it open. The shaking in her hand only getting more pronounced when she tries to lift herself up to try it from a different angle, accidently pressing her elbow in his stomach and causing him to groan sharply. A high pitched gasp escapes her when he mutters a soft "Ow." into her ear. Shocked that she caused him more pain she tries to sit up, to get to her knees beside him and out of his bed but sensing her distress he only strengthens his hold on her and forces her to stay by his side. To lay still beside him. Her hand resting on the bedsheet beside his stomach where she tried to push herself up.

"I'm fine.", he whispers into her ear and his warm breath caresses over her face and the new tears that have found their way down her cheeks. New tears of worry for him and of anger for herself. Anger at her own mindlessness to push herself up on his body, at her idea to go and see him in the middle of the night, at her feelings for him and her own inability to tell him what she feels.

"Calm down." His hands stroke slowly over her body and the rising of his upper body against his own lulls her back into calmness. She moves her hand slowly from the cold bedsheet and with a touch as light as a feather she lays it on the side of his stomach, mindful of the strain his body had to suffer through that day.

His hand glides from her shoulder blade and down her arm, his fingertips stroking the sensitive skin just above her elbows, causing her to take a deep breath and a whimper to escape her lips. Just like all the times he had held her close to him before, when he had taken her mind of all the things that kept her from sleep at night. All the nights when she had come to him, unable to sleep with red rimmed eyes because she was worried about the war and the safety of all the people who had found a way into her heart. He had used her like she had used him, had made her his own while he knew that she never would be just that. Had made her whimper and arch against him. And he knew that he lost her everytime he won her. And had felt himself breaking beneath it. Because they were only friends.

With nimble fingers he strokes her knuckles of her hand before he covers it where it lays on his stomach and gently squeezes it. Lets her know that he is alright and hasn't suffered from the pressure on his body. He'd never suffer under her touch, no matter how much it pains him to apologise to her after all the times he forgot himself, when he couldn't remember who they were, what they were, and simply kissed her.

But he doesn't care now. She feels him take hold of her hand and lifting it up to his mouth in the darkness. And then he presses a soft kiss into her palm, causing her heart to flutter and then to stop when his gentle lips brush against her rushing pulse in her wrist. His warm breath washes over the fragile skin there and she tries to hide the shiver running down her spine but of course he feels it. The soft tremor in her back brushes against his fingertips and softly he soothes his palm over her back before he lays her hand back on the button she had tried to open before.

But still her fingers won't manage to open it and she lets out a frustrated moan. Impatiently she tries to open the stubborn button but it won't budge beneath her fingers and finally she gives up and simply lets his hand rest over hers on his chest. And again she realises that they are so much closer with all their clothes and his covers between them in the darkness then without them in the bright light of his pantry.

Suddenly she doesn't feel strong enough to hold her head up any longer and with a soft rustle of his striped shirt it falls against his strong shoulder. Some few loose locks of her silken brown hair tumble over his chest and stroke his neck.

He closes his eyes as the soft caress on his skin and the wonderful smell of lavender take hold of his senses. Her hand beneath his burns with steady heat through hs pyjama shirt and into his skin while her warm sweet breath ghosts over his shoulder and his neck. His lips find her hair again and he presses another kiss in the crown of her beautiful locks.

And then he moves his longer, stronger fingers over her delicate ones and opens the button she despaired on without even batting an eye lash. There's still a soft tremble in her fingers when he takes hold of her hand again and gently slides it on the naked skin of his chest again. Strokes her fingers with his further down until he feels her moving on their own again. He rests his head back onto his cushion again when he lets her hand slide from beneath is and through the hair on his chest.

He can barely make out her face in the pale moonlight but what he sees causes his treacherous heart to beat more strongly in his chest. Her eyes are closed as she assures herself of him still being there with her, of him still drawing breath beneath her touch. She bites the side of her lips like she always does whenever she is deeply concentrated, uncertain of a question she asked or unsure of something she did. She bites it the way it has endeared itself to him, burned right through his memory and haunts his dreams. With every other little thing of her. So often he had seen her bite that lip when they had been together, when she had buttoned up her dress again or let her skirts fall to the ground. And just before he realises what he is doing he pulls his fingers away from where he nearly touched her soft inviting lips and strokes his hand over her shoulder blade instead.

On his chest she spreads his shirt further to the side where he has opened his shirt for her, allowing her to explore more of him, to touch more of him but more importantly: To ensure herself of him being well again. She lets her hand glide into his shirt. Up to his neck and down to his shoulder before she slowly lets it trail down to where his heart still beats in his chest. Her breath quickening, turning into shallow gasps the closer her hand trails. He feels her chest rise and fall against him, feels the tremor in her back increasing, His head falls back into his cushion while her unsteady gasps grazes over his chest and the hollow of his throat. His arms around her back and the fingers on his waist tighten, the hand on her shoulder blade presses her closer against him, feeling every little curve of her pressing into his side. Feeling her warm body tensing and then melting against his own.

And then her hand rests over his heart.

Over the heart she had warned him to take care of. Had told him time and time again to take things slowly, to let William help him, to let a maid help him. The heart she'd like more than anything to call her own but never can because they are only friends. The steady beating of which causes her own to beat more strongly for him. The one that makes her own try and match the his rhythm, causes hers to pick up speed whenever he walkes by, whenever he smiles at her, winks at her. Or which causes her own to beat strongly in her chest whenever he brushes against her, whenever he touches her and which beats painfully for him whenever he makes her his. Whenever he kisses her he cuts into her soul and makes her give her heart to him anew. But his heart only belongs to him. Because they are, and her heart breaks everytime she thinks it, nothing more than friends.

Her hand lays above the heart that nearly gave up on him in the middle of the family's dinner party.

And she feels his life thruming beneath her hand. Strong and steady.

Feels his heartbeat getting stronger beneath her hand. Feels it pulsating through her own hand, finds herself unable to move her hand away from his chest, from his heart. Feels his heartbeat changing into her own, or maybe hers changing into his. Whichever changes doesn't matter. But then it does matter a great deal. It matters if she's following him with her heart or if his beats faster for her.

But then they are only friends and why would his heart beat stronger for her?

But the undeniable truth is that it does. Beats strong and fast beneath her hand. And she can hear it in the silence of his room. Or maybe it's her own heart she hears loudly beating in her ears, but then their hearts beat the same rhythm. Try to play the same melody that is their friendship but find the small tune laced with something more. Something deeper, something stronger, something as soft and lovely as a harp in the middle of an orchestra.

A sob presses through her lips when his heart doesn't stop beating. It still continues to thrum in his chest beneath her hand. Another sob escapes her lips and she tries to muffle the sound in his strong shoulder she hides her face from him. Feeling his eyes on her in the darkness, she can't bare to look into his eyes, those warm brown eyes. She can't bare to see the resentment for her crying, for being such a weak and foolish woman, for her breaking on the thought of losing him that must clearly stand in them. In those wonderful kind eyes that twinkle with mischief whenever she teases him, that shine with warmness when she invites him to a cup of tea in her pantry and that fill with dark longing lust whenever she offers herself to him.

Hiding her face in his shoulder she doesn't see the look he is holding now. The warm expression that always shines in his eyes whenever they rest on her but he has to hide beneath so many other emotions, beneath his duty and obligations he has as the butler of Downton and her friend. Only her friend. Ever only her friend.

And he doesn't want to be that anymore.

Hiding her eyes from him she can't see the tear that shines like a jewel in the weak light of the moon, the tear that is meant for her and what they are. For them never being able to change it into something more. Because there is nothing more. They are only friends. Oh, how he hates it.

Her body shakes beneath his hands, trembles strongly against the arm and hand that lightly press her closer to him to comfort her, to calm her. The hand on her shoulder blade strokes over her back and up to her neck. His touch is warm on her skin and she the thought that if his heart had given up on him, if Mrs Crawley hadn't reacted like she did and he had died in the dining room he wouldn't be warm. The bare touch of his palm wouldn't feel hot on her neck, his body wouldn't feel warm against her chest, her stomach and down her legs. He would be cold. Stone cold.

She bites her lip violetnly to keep back the whimper that wants to escape her but fails. It reverbeates in her ears and his in pale moonlight bathed room like the lone church bell over the grave yard. She tries to calm her breathing but the warmness of his hand trailing down her spine forces another strangled sob out out of her throat. And then the tears fall again. Or maybe they have never stopped. She doesn't know anymore. She doesn't really care either. The only thing she cares about, the only one she cares about is lying next to her and holding her to him. Touching her with his large gentle hands to calm her. Whispering soothing words to her to make her stop sobbing.

He feels her tears soaking into his shirt and dampen his skin. Feels her pressing herself closer to him and the fingers that rest over his heart tremble violently. But no matter how much he strokes over her back, how much he whispers to her that everything is alright, that he is still alive and she does not need to cry only makes t worse. Every word of him, every breath he takes only causes more tears to trail down her cheeks and drop on his chest when she moves her head to rest it next to her hand.

Her other hand clutches his nightshirt as she presses her face into his chest to muffle her deep body rattling sobs, the whimpers that occasionally esccape when she tries to draw another shaky breath while she trembles against him. The fear and realisation that she nearly lost him steals her breath, robs her lungs of air and leaves her hyperventilating into his chest. Clutching his warm body to reassure herself that he is still with her she tries to gain the control over her body back - but it's gone. Has stayed back down in her parlor when she did everything but ran up the stairs and into the dining room. Thinking she might have lost him.

He doesn't know what to do anymore when her body tenses under his hand. He only knows that he has to do something to stop the tears falling from her beautiful eyes and running down her pale skin.

His hand glides from her shoulder blade and down her arm, drawing small circles on her naked arms but she doesn't react to it. Only cries more into his chest, her breathing sounding laboured and uneven. His hand comes to rest on her elbow and softly he murmurs her name. But she doesn't hear him, doesn't hear anything but the sound of his heart beat mingling with her own and pulsing through her ears. Ceasing to be the only sound in the room, in the world. The soft creaking of the old floorboards outside and the wind blowing leaves agaisnt his window are forgotten. She only hears their hearts.

And her sobs.

Her breath is hot against his from her tears dampened chest. And For a moment he has to fight with himself for control to not simply take hold of her waist and pull her completely above her and down to him, to kiss her and show her that he will live to be scolded by her in the morning. He should have listened to her all along. She had had been right when she had predicted him that he'd cause himself a heart attack if he did not slow down. And had he? No. He hadn't. Quite the contrary if one thought about how he had, after the argument, lifted her up against the wall and lost himself in her. Had lost his heart again to her in the passion and heat of the moment. Like he had so many times before.

He had been betrayed by his own heart. Because he had fallen for her long ago. And all they are, all they ever were, are he doesn't want it anymore. He's tired of apologising for the kisses he gives her. He's tired of using her body to release the tension of the day. He's tired of taking her body for himself, tired of sharing his body with hers. He wants her mind, too. Wants her laugh and her sadness. Wants her thoughts, her smiles and her tears. He simply wants all of her. Has wanted it for so long that he can't remember when the simple need for her flesh turned into the violent longing for her mind.

And now she's here. Crying for him.

And he's not going to let her go again. Feeling his breath robbed from himself in the middle of the dining room he has finally understood that he has waited for so long. For too long. And he's not going to waste any more time. Even if she rebukes him afterwards. Even if she doesn't want him close anymore aferwards. But he can't go on like this.

"Elsie.", he softly whispers in the moonlight but she doesn't hear him between the sobs she muffles into his chest. She can't hear him in the misery that is her crying. And he can't bear to see her cry.

With gentle care he lets his hand glide over her elbow and on the hand resting over his heart. Her small slender fingers feel warm beneath his stronger ones when he squeezes them carefully. His arm around her waist pulls her body up and if possible even more tightly against his own.

She needs to tell him. She can no longer hold it back and keep it secret from him. But she can't find the words for it. Three little words and she can't find them between her sobs, his skin and his warm, gentle hands on her back and hand.

His chest shifts beneath her, muscles tighten beneath her hand and against her body when he leans his head down, letting his warm breath ghost over her cheek and temple as he softly whispers into her ear.

"Elsie, I'm still alive." His voice rumbles through his chest beneath her hand, she feels it clearly where her cheek rest on his naked chest, the fine hairs softly tickling her temple and catching the rare and precious tears that still dwell up in her red rimmed eyes and roll down her pale face. She can't stop them falling, for they may have agreed that they are only friends, for her he is so much more.

The trembling beneath his hand lessens but does not disappear completely. He still can feel a slight tremor forcing itself through her spine. And so he continues his soft and long strokes down her back and up again. Laying beside her he waits until her deep and bone rattling sobs subside and only her uneven breath and his own heartbeat isaudible in the silence of his room.

For a short moment he wonders if she has stopped hyperventilating because she has heard what he just said or if she simply is too tired to cry against his chest anymore. No matter what it is, he feels happyness flooding through him for she is still close to him and clutches his fingers between her own where their hands still rest over his heart. Thrumming in his chest. Strong and steadily, but faster than usual with her presence filling his mind and his bed. Her warm body pressing against him and the sweet fragrance of her hair, her fragrance, filling his room. Filling his mind, caressing his heart and soothing his soul.

She doesn't say anything to him. She just doesn't know what to say to him while her pulse rushes through her veins, her skin feeling hot where he touches her or strokes over her through her nightgown. Warmth seeps through her nightgown where his fingers rest on the small of her back when she finally stops shivering next to him. But although her body listens to her mind telling it to stop at once the warm tears falling from her eyes don't care about her mind. They fall from her heart. Fall for his heart.

His thumb softly caresses her wrist where it rests on his chest and she slowly draws in a deep breath while she closes her eyes agains the sensation. Soft and simple. But so caring for her. And for a moment she wonders if he would touch her like that if they really are what they tell each other. What they have pretended to be for the last decade. Or has it been longer? She doesn't remember anymore. It has been too long for sure.

Softly she exhales against his skin and he wiggles beneath her. Causes him to moan softly when her breath cooles on her tears slowly drying where the fell on him.

"Elsie." Does he know what his voice done to her all these years when he murmured her name when they were alone and giving themselves to each other? His voice had send shivers down her spine every time he said her name. Has made her skin tingle and her mind fog with passion when his breath grazed her ear whenever he said it. She has wished so often for him to use it when they sip tea in his pantry but she has always been only Mrs Hughes. Never Elsie then.

And she has learned to hate it so much over the years.

She has longed for his name on his lips, has longed for his deep, warm voice that caused her to give herself to him whenever he did nothing more than ask for it, to say her name while they checked the account books or when she helped him sort through the wine delivery. Not just to hear it when he said it breathlessly against her skin. To moan it into her ear.

She just wants him as close to her as she is to him.

"Charles...", his name nearly vanishes in the silence of his room.

He waits for her to say more but there are no word to follow his name. She only said his christian name. The name that no one uses anymore but her whenever she lets him use her to relieve some of his tension. But he is tired of just hearing his name then. He is tired of relieving his tension. He wants to love her. All of her.

Her leg slowly sneaks over his as she presses herself closer to him. Afraid that he might disappear from beside her. That his heart might still give up on him although Clarkson said that it was nothing but stress causing it to flutter. Though at the moment stress is far from his mind and all that is causing it to flutter is her.

He presses a kiss against her temple when he suddenly feels a gentle kiss against his chest. A soft lingering kiss, nothing more than the slight morning breeze in the leaves of the trees in spring but still. It is a kiss.

Her leg and arm clutches him more tightly suddenly, her warm body seems to heat up next to him. Her embrace gets stronger, her fingers tighten their hold on his and her arm on his stomach presses itself into his skin.

"Never leave me." Her voice sounds high pitched and breathless in the dark before it breaks. "Please, never leave me."

He pulls his hand from beneath hers.

A sob strangles her. She has said to much. Has gone to far with her plea for him to stay at her side, for letting her stay at his side. He doesn't want her with him. Fresh tears well up in her eyes. Why does she need to cry all the time? Why can't she stop? He doesn't want her, he doesn't want her tears.

She pulls her hand from his chest and tries to get up but the arm around her back and waist doesn't let her. No, he only strengthens his hold on her and keeps her close. Doesn't let her move one inch from him.

His chest glistens from her tears in the pale moonlight. His breath ghosts over her face and she knows that he looks at her but she can't lift her eyes to meet his. The anger and resentment she will find in them will only break her heart. And would cost them their friendship because she can't go on like they used to live with each other anymore.

His hand gently touches her wet cheek and his thumb caresses over it to dry the tears that keep falling.

"Elsie, look at me.", he softly demands of her in his deep rumbling voice. Her hand presses against his side and she tries to resist his command but can't. She never could resist that voice. She never will.

Slowly she lifts her eyes to meet his and although nearly everything is dark in the room the soft moonlight still enables her to see the outline of his face and the gentle look in his eyes. Her heart suddenly jumps in her chest. Beats wildly and makes her pulse rush when she feels his hand glide from her cheek to her neck.

"I'm not going to leave you, my love.", his voice is soft. A gentle vibration in his chest. Her heart stops. _My love._

Her head falls against his chest and he feels the skin cool where her short and fast breaths cools on it. He leans forward to kiss her forehead when he hears a soft murmur against his chest. And tenses.

"What?", his voice stocks in his chest.

Did she? Did she really just say it? Did he really hear the words from her?

He can't be sure. He must have misheard. It can't be. She has murmured something against his skin. It could have been just about everything. Something about the night being dark, something about ordering strawberries for tomorrow's dinner, something about the household accounts. His mind can't grasp it.

But his heart has. And it is thrumming strongly in his chest. But he can't be sure. He has to know for sure. The war between his mind and his heart is to violent to really accept it.

"Please, say that again..."

He waits a second. Waits another one. Feels her breathing against his chest. Feels her hair tickle over his skin when she moves her head and finally lifts it up. It takes her a second but she finds his eyes in the darkness again.

"I love you."

His heart stops just like hers did. And then it roars with happyness in his chest. Clarkson would tell him that it's not good for him, that he needs rest. But to hell with Clarkson.

Her eyes glisten with those beautiful tears in the moonlight while he feels pure happiness rushing through his veins.

"Elsie. Oh, my beautiful Elsie.", his voice is raw with emotion and she suddenly clutches at him.

It's hard to see in the darkness but suddenly he looks at her the way she has wished for him to do for all these years they have spend together as friends. All these years she has spend as his mistress, wanting to be more to him. And now she is. Has been for a long time without ever knowing it, shre realises now.

Her eyes shine with tears again. But this time they are not tears of fear and almost loss but tears of joy. Tears of relief, of happyness, of love. She loves him. And he never knew. Always thought that she only loved him as a friend while she loved him as a woman could only ever love one man.

And suddenly he finds himself able to speak the words he had longed for so long to voice them. To finally say them to her without needing to fear that they could cost them their friendship. Because while living without her love had been painful, living without her friendship, without her, would have been unbearable.

And now he takes a deep breath, strokes his hand down her arm to her small hand and takes it into his bigger one.

"I love you, my Elsie."

He lifts their hands to his mouth and kisses her fingers when the last tears of the night fall from her eyes. His lips caress her palm when she suddenly cups his cheek in it and makes him look at her again.

"Never leave me, Charles. Please.", her voice is hoarse from crying but her plea is strong.

He catches her hand again and presses another kiss to her palm before he gently rests it over his heart again and joins his fingers with hers.

And for a moment she listens to what the strong heartbeat beneath her fingers tell her.

He's still alive. Still breathing. Still with her.

And when he leans down to softly capture her lips with his she knows that Charles will stay with her.

~o~

_I hope you liked my little present.  
><em>_Feel free to take from my birthday cake and just maybe leave a little review. :)_


End file.
